A Tail of Camelot (16 page)

T
he door to Valentina's former cage clicked shut behind Calib. The hinges had been fixed, and a stronger padlock had been added to the door to make escape impossible.

“Keep a constant eye on the prisoner, Warren,” Sir Percival instructed the page with his usual, black-toothed smile. Both Sir Percival and Warren had escorted him promptly to the dungeon when they arrived back in Camelot. “Perhaps after he's had some time to reflect on his actions, he would like to make a confession. And
remember, Warren, this could be
you
if you don't follow my instructions.”

Warren saluted Sir Percival, but Calib noticed his paw was trembling. He must have known, of course, that Calib wasn't the true traitor.

“Stop lying, Sir Percival!” Calib said, rubbing his wrists to get blood back into them. “I know you're helping the Saxons!”

Sir Percival gave him a look of mock pity, barely concealing the malice behind his eyes. “Such a shame that the Christopher legacy should end in such an ignoble way,” he said, walking back out of the cellars. “I don't imagine
you'll
be on any tapestries.”

Warren stationed himself facing the cage, looking anywhere but directly at Calib. Fury crackled through Calib like a tinder spark set to dry kindling.

“Why?” Calib demanded of the gray mouse. “
Why
are you helping Sir Percival? You
know
you didn't see a black squirrel kill Grandfather! Why are you lying?”

“I'm
not
lying!” Warren said hotly, but Calib saw his eyes dart toward the door. “So what if I didn't see the squirrel myself? Sir Percival saw Two-Bits. What does it matter if I told Commander Kensington that fact or if Sir Percival did? Either way, that Darkling was there! Two-Bits killed Commander Yvers!”

Suddenly, it all made sense to Calib. Warren had
agreed to tell Commander Kensington that he had seen the squirrel because he had hoped it would put him in good standing with the commander. Maybe he had even thought that the famous knight would ask him to be her personal squire after he passed the Harvest Tournament. It was a prestigious position, and one that would surely help Warren achieve knighthood himself.

To his dismay, Calib found that he could understand what the gray mouse had been thinking. He knew all too well the burning desire to become a knight of Camelot.

Warren's ribs heaved, as if he had been running laps around the training arena. Looking at the way his fur was now glossy with sweat, Calib thought that there might still be a chance to convince Warren to tell the truth.

“Warren, listen—you must tell Commander Kensington that
you
didn't actually see Two-Bits!” Calib said, his words urgent. “If you tell the truth, they might give me a chance to explain! Be brave,” he pushed. “It's what a knight would do.”

Warren met his eyes, and for a second, Calib thought Warren was going to say yes. But then the gray mouse dropped his gaze.

“I can't,” he whispered. “What if Commander Kensington won't let me become a squire? And besides, if you're right, Sir Percival would— He would—”

It seemed as though his fear of Sir Percival had clamped
Warren's mouth shut. He turned his back on Calib and stared at the door.

Calib's fury fizzled out into despair, twisting up like a lump of coal in his chest.

“If you won't tell the truth,” he pleaded, “then just tell me: is Cecily all right?”

Warren remained unresponsive, refusing to acknowledge Calib for the rest of the evening.

The night dragged on. Being underground, Calib could not tell how much time had passed. With no one coming to visit, and no one willing to deliver news or food, Calib lay back on the dirty sock he was supposed to use for a bed mat. It still reeked of human feet, and he was nauseated.

He stayed awake long into the night. Warren's snoring would have been too loud to ignore even if Calib's anxious thoughts had allowed him to sleep. As it was, he could not stop thinking about what had happened. Over and over again, he was rooted to the ground, watching Cecily get hit and crumple. Over and over again, he saw the large shadow attack his grandfather. His failures felt like stones in his stomach. Calib brushed away the tears that dampened his fur.

“Calib?” a soft voice whispered his name.

A silhouette appeared, just out of the flickering light. Calib rose to his feet. “Who's there?”

“Shh!” The silhouette stepped forward. It was Ginny, Cecily's best friend, looking anxious as ever, with a small stack of tea sandwiches made from bread crusts and cucumber peels. “I wanted to come as soon as I'd heard you were back, but I had to wait until everyone would be sleeping. These are for you,” she said, slipping the food between the bars.

“Thank you,” Calib whispered, and even though it had been hours since he had last eaten, he wasn't the least bit hungry.

“How is Cecily? Is she . . . ,” Calib paused as he prayed the answer wasn't his worst nightmare come true, “all right?”

Ginny's face fell. “Not really,” she said, her voice catching with emotion. “She's had a terrible fever all evening. Sir Alric is watching over her while Sir Percival has gone off to gather herbs for medicine.”

At the mention of Sir Percival, Calib's anger filled him like a flood.

“Don't trust him, Ginny,” Calib warned. “Sir Percival is the one who's been lying to us all along about the Darklings.”

“Shush!” Ginny reached through the bars and clapped a paw over Calib's mouth as Warren stirred. They waited a few breathless moments, and then Warren began to snore again. Calib backed away from Ginny's paw.

“What's going to happen to me?” Calib asked.

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “The knights are meeting in the morning to discuss it, along with planning the next offensive attack on the Darklings.” Then her ears perked up. “But I did have one funny bit of news. It seems that one of the Two-Leggers has been trying to talk to us.”

“What do you mean?” Calib's pulse quickened.

“Barnaby found a message, written in bread crumbs, placed in front of the tunnel that leads into the throne room.”

Calib latched on to this bit of news like a lifeline. “What did the message say?”

“That's the funny thing,” Ginny said. “It just said ‘thank you.' Have you ever heard of such a thing? I wonder if the first-year pages are just trying to play a trick on us.”

But before Calib could inquire further, Warren stirred again.

“I better go.” Ginny gave Calib's paw one last squeeze and then scurried away.

Stinging thoughts darted around in Calib's head. If only there was a way to get Galahad back into the cellar again . . .

If only he'd reached the Darklings more quickly . . .

If only . . .

Just as Calib was about to drift off, a horn sounded in the distance.

Warren bolted upright. Moments later the sound of thudding pawsteps approached the entrance to the room.

“Warren, to the walls!” barked Sir Alric, who appeared in full armor at the doorway. “The Darklings have been spotted outside the borders! All pages need to fill in for the sentries!”

“Wait! What about me?” Calib called, but Warren was already scrambling up the stairs after Sir Alric. There was a moment of silence, and then Calib thought he heard muffled pawsteps. Had they come back for him?

Calib held his breath, waiting, but no one entered the room. And yet . . . suddenly, a strange certainty filled Calib: someone was watching him. He turned toward the corner, away from the door, and saw a pair of eyes peer out at him from the other side of the cage.

A dark, wet nose appeared between the bars, followed by a pair of unmistakable mismatched eyes.

“Howell?” Calib whispered.

The wolf seemed to glow faintly, even though there was no moonlight to reflect in the dank cellar dungeon. More remarkable still, Howell looked translucent.

“You are quite popular this evening, Calib Christopher,” the wolf said. “It's been difficult to speak with you privately.”

“How do you do that?” Calib asked, breathless with amazement. “Who
are
you?”

“I go by many names,” Howell answered, a sharp-toothed grin spreading across his face. “Howell, Myrddin, Emrys . . . Merlin.”

Calib's jaw dropped.
Howell
was the famous Two-Legger wizard? Was it possible? All this time, Calib had been speaking to the greatest wizard the world had ever known. He suddenly felt shy. And yet . . . something occurred to him.

“It was you,” the mouse said breathlessly. “You put the Sword in the Stone, didn't you?”

“Goodness, no.” Howell shook his head. “The Darkling Woods possess secret ways of warning, my dear mouse. The Sword in the Stone is an older and wilder kind of magic than any I command. All I can do is interpret what signs are left of it in this world.”

Calib remembered the tales of the old days, when magical beings like fairies, elves, and giants lived among other animals in peace.

“I need your help, Calib,” Howell said somberly.

Calib blinked at him, certain he'd misheard.

“‘Help'?” Calib repeated. “You're the greatest wizard who ever lived. I'm just a mouse. How can I possibly help you?”

Howell sighed.

“My powers have diminished as the magic of this world has waned. I've preserved what magic I can by living as
a wolf. I am of no more use to men, and I have only one last spell in me. I will free you from this place. You must do the rest.”

“But why spend your last spell freeing me?” Calib asked. “I've already
failed
! I'm useless! Because of me, the Darklings are marching on Camelot even now!”

“You are your father's son,” Howell said sternly. “It is a resemblance not in your whisker length or fur coloring. The power is inside of you; you just have to learn to listen. Give me your paw, Calib Christopher.”

Calib obliged, slipping his paws through the bars. The wolf laid his enormous paw gently on Calib's trembling one.

“Resera,”
he said. His voice seemed to come from far away. Howell began to fade before Calib's eyes. The outline of his wolf shape blurred.

“Both the Darkling and the Saxon armies are attacking this very morning,” Howell continued. Now he was no more than a hovering ball of fading light. “Only when all of Camelot's creatures have been united will you be able to defeat the Manderlean.”

For a long moment, all Calib could see was darkness. And in that darkness, Merlin's voice echoed, frail and distant.

“I have no more power in this world. My magic is spent.
You
must help them now.”

A flash of brilliant blue light blinded Calib. Slowly, the edges of his vision filled in like the gray of twilight. A blast of cold winter wind made his whiskers twitch. He suddenly felt the cool damp of earth and grass beneath his paws.

His cage was gone, along with the dank dungeon beyond it. Calib stood on top of a hill, about a league from the castle, with a clear view of an open meadow beneath a sky still flecked with fading stars. On the horizon, a rosy-pink light promised that dawn was not far behind.

“Where are we, Merlin?” he asked in amazement. But there was no reply.

Calib looked around, expecting to see the human wizard, or perhaps Howell the wolf, but there was no one else. He was alone, and in the distance, he could hear a trumpet sound the charge.

A battle was beginning.

T
he first rays of sun fell across the open ground, illuminating the Camelot troops marching across it. Little red banners dotted the landscape, signaling the position of various regiments. Beyond the meadow, between the bare branches of a nearby grove, Calib could see a great confusion of movement.

Black birds beat the air with their wings. Smaller, blurred figures leaped among the lower branches. Calib could make out a large, tawny shape lunging between the tree trunks with feline grace. It could only be Leftie the lynx, sunlight glinting off his armor.

Calib dashed down the side of the hill as fast as his paws would carry him. He threw himself into the tall grass, making a beeline for the grove. He didn't know how he could stop the battle, but he knew he had to try.

Merlin trusted him. But how—how was he supposed to help?

The ground was slippery with frost. Short tufts of grass crackled icily beneath his paws. It was hard going across the uneven ground, clambering over furrows and worming his way through brambles. He was soon out of breath. But he hardly noticed.

His mind was racing. Help, help, help. How could he help?

Approaching an embankment, Calib found his way blocked by a Two-Legger stone wall. It wasn't very high, but it was well built, with mortar between the stones. He ran along the base, searching frantically for a way through it, but there were no openings large enough to admit a mouse. The only way was over.

He dragged himself up from stone to stone, pawhold to pawhold. His muscles were already tired from his sprint, and the rock was slick with ice, unyielding beneath his paws. Once, he lost his grip and almost went tumbling down to the ground, but he managed to cling precariously to a patch of lichen until he regained his footing. At last, gasping and panting, he pulled himself onto the top of the wall.

A flash of movement at the southeast edge of the forest caught Calib's eye. At first he thought he had imagined it, but as he stared across the meadow, he saw something—or some
things
—emerging from the southeast.

His heart stopped.

A mass of moving creatures spilled from the forest, spreading out along the tree line as more and more of them poured out into the meadow.

Saxon weasels.

Calib could see them from the wall. But they were visible for only half a dozen feet beyond the border of the forest before disappearing into the tall meadow grass. After that, the only sign of the creatures was the violent swaying of the grass that marked their snaky path to the castle . . . and toward the unsuspecting, warring mice and Darklings fighting in the grove ahead.

Calib would never be able to warn the Camelot army in time— He was too slow! There was simply no way for him to reach the grove before the animals were ambushed. He was paralyzed. Why had Merlin placed so much trust in him? He was only a mouse, after all—and not even a very capable one.

A raucous cawing suddenly filled the air around him.

Calib instinctively ducked as a flock of crows whizzed overhead, flying low to the ground, their shadows skating over the frozen grass.

“Wait!” Calib yelled up at them. “Come back! The
Saxons are attacking!”

But either the birds hadn't heard him, or else they were too focused on the ongoing melee between Camelot and the Darklings to care about one little mouse.

Calib jumped and hollered, waving his arms and shouting at them to come back. But by now, they were too far away to hear him.

“I'll give you this much, Calib Christopher,” said a familiar voice. “You're a mouse who knows how to find trouble.”

“Valentina!” Calib's hopes lifted as the crow circled and then alighted on the wall.

“Looks like you're late for the battle too,” she said.

“Can you take me there?” Calib said eagerly.

The crow hesitated. “And if I did, which side would you be fighting on?”

Calib groaned in frustration. “We're all on the same side. That's what I've been telling you. Look!”

He pointed toward the meadow. The flood of weasels from the Darkling Woods had finally ceased, but the long grass was a seething torrent of motion. In places the grass had been trampled flat, and Calib could see a steady stream of long, sinuous bodies clad in armor.

Valentina froze. “By beak and talon,” she whispered in shock. “How many are there?”

“Too many! We have to warn everyone, before
both
our
forces are overrun!”

Valentina nodded. “Right. Grab on and hold tight.” She held out one leg to Calib, and he climbed carefully onto her foot and balanced himself between her narrow toes.

With a quick hop, Valentina launched herself off the wall and into the air. The world spun crazily beneath Calib. He gave a yelp of fright. This was nothing like riding in the basket that General Gaius had carried. Then, he and Cecily had been sheltered from the wind and the dizzying view. Now there was nothing but sleek black feathers above him and the unforgiving ground below.

In almost no time they were past the Saxon vanguard. And shortly after that, they were in the grove, dodging between the branches of scrubby trees. Calib's heart leaped and plunged with every dip of Valentina's wings. Calib could see Darkling and Camelot creatures fighting all around. Here, a band of Darkling archers had a troop of shrews pinned down behind a boulder. There, three of the moat otters had a badger surrounded, though a group of hares were coming to her aid. In the canopy around them, crows and larks swooped and dived, feathers flying as they locked talons in combat.

“Stop fighting! The Saxons are attacking!” Calib shouted as Valentina flew low over the battle.

“Regroup!” Valentina cawed. “Weasels on the southeast flank!”

But no one paid them any attention.

A flurry of fur and steel caught Calib's eye—Leftie, crouched on a fallen log, exchanging vicious blows with Commander Kensington and Sir Owen.

Valentina flew straight for the log and pulled up sharply in front of Leftie and the knights, flapping her wings wildly to get their attention. Calib let go of her leg and rolled to a hard landing in the dirt. He looked up to see all three combatants staring down at him, mouths agape.

“Calib Christopher?” Kensington's voice was equal parts anger and disbelief.

“Commander! Leftie!” he burst out. “You need to stop the battle— We're about to be ambushed!”

Leftie bared his teeth at Calib. “Is this another Camelot deception?”

“I swear it!” Calib shouted. “We're all in terrible danger!”

“Stop your nonsense, Calib,” Kensington said. “Who do you pretend is going to ambush us?”

Calib looked up at Valentina for support.

“Them,”
Valentina said in a hoarse whisper, and Calib turned to see a writhing tide of weasels emerge from the grass, advancing toward them like a dark wave from a stormy sea—endless and unstoppable.